by Ian Mcewan
She crossed her arms. “Adam, why are you here?”
His gaze slid away and he hesitated. He was not going to tell her, or not directly.
“Look, I’m not the same person. When you came to see me I really was ready to die. It’s amazing that people like you could waste your time on me. I was such an idiot!”
She gestured toward two wooden chairs by an oval walnut table and they sat facing each other across it. The ceiling light, a factory-stressed rustic wheel of stained wood bearing four energy-conserving lamps, cast down from one side a ghastly white glow. It heightened the contours of his cheekbones and lips, and picked out the fine twin ridges of his philtrum. It was a beautiful face.
“I didn’t think you were an idiot.”
“But I was. Whenever the doctors and nurses tried to talk me round, I felt sort of noble and heroic telling them to leave me alone. I was pure and good. I loved it that they couldn’t understand how profound I was. I was really pumped up. I liked it that my parents and the elders were proud. At night when no one was around I rehearsed making a video, like suicide bombers do. I was going to do it on my phone. I wanted it on the television news and at my funeral. I made myself cry in the dark, imagining them carrying my coffin past my parents, past my school friends and teachers, the whole congregation, the flowers, the wreaths, the sad music, everyone weeping, everyone proud of me and loving me. Honestly, I was an idiot.”
“And where was God?”
“Behind everything. These were his instructions I was obeying. But it was mostly about the delicious adventure I was on, how I would die beautifully and be adored. This girl I know at school had anorexia three years ago, when she was fifteen. Her dream was of wasting away to nothing—like a dried leaf in the wind, was what she said, just fading gently into death and everyone pitying her and blaming themselves afterward for not understanding her. Same sort of thing.”
Now he was sitting she remembered him in hospital, leaning against the pillows among the teenage debris. It wasn’t his sickliness that came back to her, it was the eagerness, the vulnerable innocence. Even the word “anorexia” on his lips sounded like a hopeful jaunt. He had taken from his pocket a narrow strip of green cloth, something torn from a lining perhaps, which he rolled and rubbed between forefinger and thumb like worry beads.
“So this wasn’t so much about your religion, then. More about your feelings.”
He raised both hands. “My feelings came out of my religion. I was doing God’s will, and you and all the rest were plain wrong. How could I have got into such a mess without being a Witness?”
“Sounds like your anorexic friend managed it.”
“Yeah, well, actually, anorexia’s a bit like religion.”
When she looked skeptical he improvised. “Oh, you know, wanting to suffer, loving the pain and sacrifice, thinking that everyone’s watching and caring and that the whole universe is all about you. And your weight!”
She couldn’t help herself, she laughed at the po-faced self-ironic afterthought. He grinned at his unexpected success in amusing her.
They heard voices and footsteps in the hallway as the guests left the dining room and crossed to the sitting room for coffee. Then a staccato bark of laughter close to the library door. The boy tensed at the possibility of an interruption and they sat in conspiratorial silence, waiting for the sounds to recede. Adam was staring down at his clasped hands on the polished grain of the table. She wondered at all the hours of his childhood and teenage years, of praying, hymns, sermons, and various constraints that she could never know about, at the tight and loving community that had sustained him until it had almost killed him.
“Adam, I’m asking you again. Why are you here?”
“To thank you.”
“There are easier ways.”
He sighed impatiently as he replaced the strip of cloth in his pocket. For a moment she thought he was getting ready to leave.
“Your visit was one of the best things that ever happened.” Then, quickly, “My parents’ religion was a poison and you were the antidote.”
“I don’t remember talking against your parents’ faith.”
“You didn’t. You were calm, you listened, you asked questions, you made some comments. That was the point. It’s this thing you have. It added up to something. You didn’t have to say it. A way of thinking and talking. If you don’t know what I mean, go and listen to the elders. And when we did our song …”
She said briskly, “Are you still playing the violin?”
He nodded.
“And the poetry?”
“Yes, lots. But I hate the stuff I was writing before.”
“Well, you’re good. I know you’ll write something wonderful.”
She saw the dismay in his eyes. She was distancing herself, playing the solicitous aunt. She went a couple of steps back through the conversation, wondering why she was so anxious not to disappoint him.
“But your teachers must have been very different from the elders.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He added by way of explanation, “The school was enormous.”
“And what is this thing I’m supposed to have?” She said it gravely, allowing no hint of irony.
The question didn’t embarrass him. “When I saw my parents crying like that, really crying, crying and sort of hooting for joy, everything collapsed. But this is the point. It collapsed into the truth. Of course they didn’t want me to die! They love me. Why didn’t they say that, instead of going on about the joys of heaven? That’s when I saw it as an ordinary human thing. Ordinary and good. It wasn’t about God at all. That was just silly. It was like a grown-up had come into a room full of kids who are making each other miserable and said, Come on, stop all the nonsense, it’s teatime! You were the grown-up. You knew all along but you didn’t say. You just asked questions and listened. All of life and love that lie ahead of him—that’s what you wrote. That was your ‘thing.’ And my revelation. From ‘The Salley Gardens’ onward.”
Still grave in her manner, she said, “The top of your head has exploded.”
He laughed with delight at being quoted in turn. “Fiona, I can almost get through this piece by Bach without a mistake. I can do the theme from Coronation Street. I’ve been reading Berryman’s Dream Songs. I’m going to be in a play, and I’ve got to do all my exams before Christmas. And thanks to you I’m full of Yeats!”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
He leaned forward on his elbows, dark eyes gleaming in the awful light, his whole face appearing to tremble with anticipation, with unbearable appetite.
She considered for a moment, then said in a whisper, “Wait here.”
She stood up, hesitated, and seemed about to change her mind and sit down. But she turned away from him, crossed the room, stepped out into the hall. Pauling was standing a few paces off, pretending to be interested in the pages of the visitors’ book resting on a marble-topped table. In a low voice she gave rapid instructions, returned to the library and closed the door behind her.
Adam had pulled the tea towel away from his shoulders and was examining the collage of local attractions. As she returned to her seat he said, “I’ve never heard of any of these places.”
“There’s lots to discover.”
When the effects of the interruption had dissipated she said, “So you’ve lost your faith.”
He seemed to squirm. “Yes, perhaps. I don’t know. I think I’m frightened of saying it out loud. I don’t know where I am, really. I mean, the thing is, once you take a step back from the Witnesses, you might as well go all the way. Why replace one tooth fairy with another?”
“Perhaps everyone needs tooth fairies.”
He smiled forgivingly. “I don’t think you mean that.”
She succumbed to her habit of summarizing the views of others. “You saw your parents crying and you’re confused because you suspect their love for you is greater than their belief in God or the afterlife. You need to get away. Perf
ectly natural in someone your age. Perhaps you’ll go to university. That will help. But I still don’t understand what you’re doing here. And more to the point, what you’re about to do now. Where are you going to go?”
This second question troubled him more. “I’ve got an aunt in Birmingham. My mother’s sister. She’ll have me for a week or two.”
“She’s expecting you?”
“Sort of.”
She was about to make him send another text when he extended his hand across the table, and just as quickly she withdrew hers onto her lap.
He couldn’t bear to look at her or be looked at as he spoke. He put his hands to his forehead, shading his eyes. “This is my question. When you hear it you’ll think it’s so stupid. But please don’t just reject it. Please say you’ll think about it.”
“Well?”
He spoke to the table’s surface. “I want to come and live with you.”
She waited for more. She could never have anticipated such a request. But now, it seemed obvious.
He still could not meet her eye. He spoke quickly, as though embarrassed by his own voice. He had thought it all out. “I could do odd jobs for you, housework, errands. And you could give me reading lists, you know, everything you think I should know about …”
He had stalked her through the country, through the streets, walked through a storm to ask her. It was a logical extension of his fantasy of a long sea voyage with her, of their talking all day as they paced the rolling deck. Logical and insane. And innocent. The silence wound itself around them and bound them. Even the clunking of the fan heater appeared to recede, and there were no sounds from beyond the room. He continued to protect his face from her. She stared at the whorls of his healthy young dark brown hair, now completely dry and shining.
She said gently, “You know that isn’t possible.”
“I wouldn’t get in the way, I mean, with you and your husband.” Finally, he removed his hands and looked at her. “You know, like a sort of lodger. When I’ve finished my exams I could get a job and pay you some rent.”
She saw the spare room and its twin single beds, the teddies and other animals in the wicker basket, the toy cupboard so crammed that one door would not close. She coughed abruptly and stood, and went the length of the room to the window and made a show of looking out into the dark. At last, without turning, she said, “We only have one spare room and a lot of nephews and nieces.”
“You mean that’s your only objection?”
There was a tap on the door and Pauling came in. “Here in two minutes, My Lady,” he said, and left.
She came away from the window and went back toward Adam and stooped to pick up his backpack from the floor.
“My clerk will go with you in a taxi, first to the station to buy you a ticket to Birmingham tomorrow morning and then to a hotel close by.”
After a pause he got slowly to his feet and took the bag from her. Despite his height, he looked like a small child in shock.
“Is that it, then?”
“I’d like you to promise me you’ll contact your mother again before you get on the train. Tell her where you’ll be.”
He didn’t reply. She handed him toward the door and they went out into the hall. No one in sight. Caradoc Ball and his guests were settled in the drawing room behind closed doors. She left Adam waiting by the library while she went to her room to get money from her handbag. On her way back, she saw the whole scene from her elevated position at the top of the grand staircase. The front door was open and the butler was talking to the driver. Behind him, below the portico steps, was the taxi, door open to release the cheery swooping sounds of Arabic orchestral music. Her clerk was crossing the hall at a pace, presumably to prevent the butler from creating a problem. As for Adam Henry, he was still by the library entrance, pressing the bag in his arms against his chest. By the time she reached him, the butler, the driver and the clerk were outside on the gravel by the car discussing, she hoped, a suitable hotel.
The boy started to say, “But we haven’t even—” and she raised a hand to shush him.
“You must go.”
Lightly, she took the lapel of his thin jacket between her fingers and drew him toward her. Her intention was to kiss him on the cheek, but as she reached up and he stooped a little and their faces came close, he turned his head and their lips met. She could have drawn back, she could have stepped right away from him. Instead, she lingered, defenseless before the moment. The sensation of skin on skin obliterated any possibility of choice. If it was possible to kiss chastely full on the lips, this was what she did. A fleeting contact, but more than the idea of a kiss, more than a mother might give her grown-up son. Over in two seconds, perhaps three. Time enough to feel in the softness of his lips that overlay their suppleness all the years, all the life, that separated her from him. As they withdrew, a slight adhesion of skin might have drawn them back together. But there were approaching footsteps on the gravel and on the stone steps outside. She let go of his lapel and said again, “You must go.”
He picked up his backpack, which he had dropped to the floor, and followed her across the hall and out into the fresh night air. At the foot of the steps the driver gave a friendly salute and opened the taxi’s rear door. The music had been turned off. She had intended to give the cash to Adam, but in a sudden pointless change of mind, she handed it to Pauling instead. He nodded and grimaced as he took the thin roll of notes. With a brusque movement of his shoulders, Adam seemed to shake himself free of all of them and ducked into the backseat and sat with the bag on his lap, staring straight ahead. Already beginning to regret what she had set in train, she moved around the car in order to exchange a last look with him. He was surely aware of her, but he turned his head away. Pauling got in the front beside the driver. The butler closed Adam’s door with a dismissive backhand flourish. Shoulders hunched, Fiona hurried up the cracked stone steps as the taxi drew away.
Five
SHE MOVED ON from Newcastle after a week, judgments handed down or delayed pending reports, leaving contented or embittered parties, some of whom had the meager comfort of leave to appeal. In the case she had described to Charlie at dinner, she granted residence to the grandparents, and allowed supervised weekly contact to the mother and father separately, with a return date set for six months. By then, whoever sat in her place would have the benefit of a progress report on the children’s welfare, the parents’ promises to attend an addiction program, and the mother’s mental state. The little girl would stay at her school, a Church of England primary, where she was well known. Fiona found the conduct of the local authority’s children department in this case to be exemplary.
In the late afternoon of Friday she said her farewells to the court officials. On Saturday morning at Leadman Hall, Pauling loaded the boot of the car with documents in boxes and her robes on hangers. With their personal luggage piled on the backseat and the judge installed in front, they headed west for Carlisle by way of the Tyne Gap, across the whole width of England, Cheviots to the right, Pennines to the left. But the drama of geology and history was dulled by traffic, its volume, its routines and the road furniture that uniformly defined the British Isles.
They were slowing to walking pace through Hexham, her phone lay idle in her hand and she was thinking, as she had during various interludes all week, of the kiss. What impulsive folly, not to have pulled away. Professional and social madness. In memory, the actual contact, flesh on flesh, tended to extend in time. Then she would try to cut the moment back to a blameless peck on the lips. But that peck soon swelled again, until she no longer knew what it was or what had happened or for how long she had risked disgrace. Caradoc Ball could have stepped out into the hall at any point. Worse, one of his guests, unconstrained by tribal loyalty, might have seen her and told the world. Pauling could have turned back indoors from his conversation with the taxi driver and surprised her. Then the sensitively constructed distance between them that made her work possible would have
been destroyed.
She was not prone to wild impulses and she didn’t understand her own behavior. She realized there was much more to confront in her confused mix of feelings, but for now it was the horror of what might have come about, the ludicrous and shameful transgression of professional ethics, that occupied her. The ignominy that could have been all hers. Hard to believe that no one had seen her, that she was leaving the scene of the crime unscathed. Easier to believe that the truth, hard and dark as a bitter seed, was about to reveal itself: that she had been observed and hadn’t noticed. That even now, miles behind her in London, the case was being discussed. That one day soon she’d hear on her phone the hesitant embarrassed voice of a senior colleague. Ah, Fiona, look, awfully sorry but I’m afraid I should warn you, uh, something’s come up. Then, waiting for her back at Gray’s Inn, a formal letter from the Judicial Complaints investigation officer.
She tapped two keys to summon her husband on the phone. In flight from a kiss, running scared for the cover of a married woman of some repute, some solidity. She made the call without thinking, out of habit, barely aware of the state of play between her and Jack. When she heard his tentative hello, the acoustic told her that he was in the kitchen. The radio was playing, Poulenc perhaps. On Saturday mornings they always had, always used to have, a lazy but early breakfast, a spread of papers, muted Radio Three, coffee, warmed pain aux raisins from Lamb’s Conduit Street. He would be in his paisley silk dressing gown. Unshaven, hair uncombed.
In a careful neutral tone, he asked her if she was all right. When she said “fine” it surprised her how normal she sounded. She began to improvise with facility, just as Pauling, with a satisfied sigh, remembered a shortcut and pulled free of the traffic. Plausible enough in the way of good housekeeping to remind Jack of her return date at the end of the month, and natural, or it had once been, to suggest that on the evening she came home they should go out for a meal together. A nearby restaurant they liked was often booked up in advance. Perhaps he could make a reservation now. He thought it was a good idea. She heard him suppress the surprise in his voice, steering cleanly between warmth and distance. He asked her again if she was all right. He knew her too well, and clearly, she wasn’t sounding quite so normal. With lightened emphasis she said she was absolutely fine. They exchanged a few lines about work. The call ended on his cautious good-bye that sounded almost like a question.